


How a Lazy Secret Goes to Die

by cinephile2020



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, Cheesy, Fighting, Flirting, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, John and Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Scotland Yard, Stakeout, Texting, fed up, sally is sassy, so is anderson, text, the yard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinephile2020/pseuds/cinephile2020
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speedy's Cafe is serving Feeny, a restless criminal, and John and Sherlock's house is the perfect place for a stake out in order to finally catch the villain. Don't expect Sherlock to help out, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How a Lazy Secret Goes to Die

Lestrade listened to the insistent baritone coming from inside the flat and began to rethink the plan.

“He _has_ to let us in.” Anderson’s voice sneered from behind him; he was holding a plethora of equipment, struggling to keep it from toppling over onto the floor. “After all the cases you’ve given him over the years? He _owes_ you.”

Lestrade clicked his tongue in agreement. He had just gotten information about a rebel they have been chasing for the past five years: the man goes to Speedy's Cafe at least once a week, the cafe under Sherlock and John’s home. If they could use the flat as a stakeout, looking out the window, they would get the man in handcuffs within the week and could move on to other killers, thieves, extortionists.

Sally rolled her eyes, arms crossed against her chest. “All you have to do is knock.” She said in an overdone tone. She huffed out a breath when Lestrade began to look even more unsure. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Sally, don’t!” He chided, but she already had her fist rasping against the door. The yelling from inside the flat faded out and they heard the detective murmur a ‘hold on’ before he ripped the door open.

Sherlock twiddled with his side of the golden door knob as he analyzed their equipment. “Are you about to ask me if you can have a stakeout in my flat?” He asked in a clipped, mocking tone. He had his iPhone in his hand and the name on the screen was John’s. The timer on the call showed they had been talking for two hours and 15 minutes.

“Erm. Yeah. We have a lead that says the Feeny killer goes to the cafe under you every couple of days and- er... we need to catch him. Using your flat would save us doing shit loads of paperwork.” Lestrade smiled hopefully, almost feeling like an intruder. He had been here before, but this was different, he felt he was trying to force himself in.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade’s arced lips, “Well, obviously you need to catch him.” He looked down at his phone and then back up at the team, seven members in total. “Fine. But I want a good case in return for this.” He threw open the door and ushered them in with a flourish of his large hands. Lestrade opened his mouth in shock. It had been too easy.

“Thanks,” he murmured, pushing his team through the door frame before Sherlock abandoned his kindness; the ones who had never been there took a second to look around and take in the room, most of them looking astounded by how _normal_ it is, if a little messy with books and papers. Before Sherlock had John, the flat was always a tragedy: unwashed plates, clothes askew, fundamental furniture, cigarette butts on the floor...

“Don’t expect my assistance.” He waved them off as he returned to his phone. “Nothing,” he said to John, “no, they aren’t _intact_...” He yelled out a dramatic groan. “They were _leather_ John! The experiment only works with _leather_. Well, I wasn’t going to use _my_ shoes, was I?” He paused to listen. “That doesn’t make any sense! Hello?” Sherlock looked down at the phone, the screen was blank. He snorted and pocketed the device, then looked up to see everyone staring at him.

“That poor man.” Sally said simply.

“Shut up.” The detective spat, annoyed. “Are you here to work or mock?”

“I think we can manage a little of both.” Anderson sneered, an oily smile drowning in his face.

Sherlock did a faux double take, obviously exaggerated. “Who let you in here?” He rolled his eyes and turned to walked down the hallway. “My brain must have blocked out the sight of you in order to avoid any permanent trauma.”

Anderson glared in the direction that he disappeared in. “Prick” He muttered, and began to set up a tripod. Lestrade sighed, close to defeat even before they set up all their tools.

Sherlock came back to the living room seconds later in his long coat, wrapping his dark blue scarf around his long neck. “Well, I’m leaving,” he announced to the D.I, “I have to go buy John new _shoes_ ,” he said with a sneer, “how dull. No one go through my things. John shouldn’t be home before me.” He opened the door with a flourish and disappeared.

Sally’s face lighted up the second the door closed. “Can I go look in The Freak’s room?”

“Donovan,” Lestrade lectured, “stop acting like a bloody teenager!” She blinked, blushed, and quickly returned to attaching a long distance lense to a camera.

“I need to use the bathroom” Anderson declared stupidly, shooting Sally an evil smile.

“Don’t even think about it, Anderson. You’re not as sly as you think. Be professional or leave.” He sneered at his boss and pretended to help one of the interns unwind cables.

****

Sixty stressful and quarrelsome minutes later, all their equipment had been set up and they were lounging at the main window, plopped in front of their camera monitors, waiting for a dark haired, six foot, 245 pound man with a broken nose and a sprained ankle to walk below them.

Sherlock suddenly burst in through the door, holding a bag from an upscale shoe store, (Lestrade could never pronounce the name) looking proud of himself. He ripped off his shoes and socks, threw them on the floor and flopped onto the couch.

Where is John?” Lestrade quizzed Sherlock, already bored of staring out the window.

Sherlock sighed loudly, flexing his feet and straightening his jacket, still horizontal on the couch, “Medical conference.” The words came out like a moneyed man insulting the poor. “Again. He is on the plane home now.”

“Boyfriend needed a break?” Anderson giggled, Sherlock looked him over with sharp eyes. He gave him a once over.

“Sleeping at Sally’s, again? That bad with the wife and kids?” The forensic member turned red and flipped Sherlock off.

“Professional attitude, boys!” Lestrade snapped at the redundancy. “Whoever starts something next is _out_!”

Sherlock snorted at the team and got off the couch. He walked back down the same hallway as before and a couple seconds later the shower went on and the D.I witnessed frowns dissolve into small smiles on every single girl’s face. Even Sally’s. It was amazing how quickly humans could dismiss a personality.

Ten tedious minutes keys jingled on the other side of the door and a tired looking John Watson walked in with a small suitcase in one hand and folders of paperwork in the other. He turned towards the team and jumped, putting a hand on his heart. “Jesus, guys! What are you-” his shoulders sagged and he let out a defeated breath,  “Eh- I’ll ask in the morning;” he paused for a second, “there might be food in the fridge or order take-out or something if you’re hungry.”

Lestrade’s guilt took control of his mind, and he stood up to take the papers from John, then shaking one of his small hands. The shower turned off in the distance.

“Sherlock! I’m back!” John yelled at the lack of noise. A door open and slammed in the distance and the detective strode in wearing nothing but black jeans, and he was pulling on a tight purple shirt.

The consultant was holding the bag again, and he threw it to John, a smile on his wet face. The doctor looked in and grinned, pulling out the small leather shoes. “You really are a bastard.” He joked, then put them back into the bag. They started at each other for a second and neither of them seemed to remember they had an audience. Anderson accidentally dropped a pair of handcuffs he was twiddling and snapped the trance.

John coughed and Sherlock whipped the last buttons closed on his shirt. “Right, well I need to go to bed.” the doctor said, and went to grab his suitcase.

Sherlock snatched the handle and headed for the stairs. “I’ve got it.” He said and John grinned mischievously, walking briskly behind him. The entire team heard the clatter upstairs as the suitcase hit the floor.

“Just, concentrate, guys. The cafe closes in 30 minutes anyway.” The D.I said, not even pretending something weird wasn’t going on, and everyone tried their best to not wonder what was happening up in that room.  

Sherlock did not come back down, and when the cafe closed with no sign of their man, Lestrade ordered the team to shut down and head out, but same thing tomorrow at 5:45. The team fled and Lestrade began to follow suit, until he noticed 5 lense caps scattered about the floor.

Sherlock sauntered down the stairs and looked surprised to see the D.I still in his flat, grumbling and screwing caps onto lenses.

“Hiding from us?” Lestrade joked when he noticed the flustered detective staring at him.

“Just.. talking to John.” He said awkwardly, and ran a hand casually through his hair.

“Right,” Lestrade said. “we’ll be back first thing-” but Sherlock was already sauntering to his room, texting someone on his iPhone. The D.I sighed and headed out the door.

 

Lestrade was feeling a sense of deja vu envelop his sanity; or maybe that was just a really bad craving for coffee kicking in. Probably both. Sally had rolled her eyes and began abusing John and Sherlock’s door with her fist. It wasn’t even 5:45.

“You seem to always forget that I can fire you!” Lestrade rasped, tiredness still tossing around his eye sockets.

“We’re five minutes early, I’m sure one of them is awake.” She snapped, “Where has your backbone gone, boss.”

“It left when my politeness appeared, I don’t want to have to find another place to--” Sherlock spontaneously flung open the door, hair ruffled, shirt half way up his stomach. Lestrade glared at Sally, “Sorry we’re-”

Sherlock shoved his hand in front of the D.I’s face. “Shut up. I don’t care. Just come in and do what you’re paid to do.”

Sally pushed the door open all the way and shoved Sherlock’s shirt down. “Thanks, Freaky.”  The detective blushed and straightened out the grey cotton tee, turning away.

“Jesus christ I need a coffee,” Lestrade sighed.

“That’s a shame.” Sherlock yelled down the hall he was stomping down; “if you need me, that’s also too bad.”

“He is going to have the worst wrinkles by the time he is forty.” Sally chided, crossing her arms.

“Well, what you did was unprofessional. Please don’t touch him. Go set up.” Lestrade snapped, wishing he worked with actual five year olds instead, maybe he would seem more intimidating to them. Also they wouldn’t drink all of his coffee-

“Why are you so set on being professional?” Anderson interjected, “I thought you were under the impression that just meant yelling at us a lot.”

“Anderson, get to work!” He yelled. The member of the forensic team opened his palms and smirked; “See?”

“Black or something else?” Lestrade was about to shut his eyes in frustration when he turned around to see John, wearing a pinstriped shirt and black jeans, reaching for a coffee mug.

“Black,” Lestrade said, relief in his voice. “Thanks a lot.”

“I was awake.” John explained as he turned on the coffee maker. “I’m always up by now.”

“Old habits?” Lestrade asked, walking over.

“Army, yeah.” He opened a cupboard and then stopped, “Oh wait, no sugar.”

“Why didn’t _you_ let us in if you were up?” Lestrade asked when smell of boiled caffeine began to call him over. “We got the Sherlock Show, which was, of course, a nightmare.”

John looked up at him and tightened his lips sympathetically. “I was filling out paperwork, sorry. If you’re back tomorrow I’ll be sure to let you in.”

Lestrade could feel the power of the coffee invading his lungs, making him feel more awake. John took the pot and poured him a cup, the steam charming him, a countdown until the drink became cold and undesirable.

He practically snatched it out of John’s small, rough hands. “You, Watson, know how to save a life.”

The doctor smiled and his shoulders shook with laughter. “Speaking of saving lives, I actually have a job, I’ll probably see you guys tonight, but I need to leave.”

“Right, I do too.” He had genuinely forgot he was technically at work. Coffee can do that to any good man.

John grabbed his brown, corduroy jacket off the coat hanger, slipped it on, and opened the door. “If Sherlock harasses you, tell him…” John looked up at the ceiling in contemplation for a moment, “tell him I say I’m going to buy him unbreakable graduated cylinders today before work, well, if they exist.”

“Why?” Lestrade asked, wondering how lab equipment would help calm Sherlock; the brainy man has 10 graduated cylinders on the kitchen table alone.

“You don’t need to understand, don’t worry, it’ll work.” John pulled the door with him, the slamming sound slapping Lestrade’s attention back to the steakout.

****

Sherlock came down two hours later, an anatomy book in his hand. “I’m sure there are better ways to catch Feeny than blankly staring out my window,” he remarked. “I’m getting bored just watching you lot sit there.”

He was still in his pajamas; plaid cotton pants and a plain grey v-necked sweater. Black socks. His hair looked like a pile of ribbons, each strand curled and attached to his scalp and then ruffled until they were just vertical ringlets.

“If you have other options,” Anderson sighed, still staring out the window, half his face attached to his palm, “you could enlighten us.”

Sherlock flopped onto the couch and opened his book to a marked page, “I said I wasn’t helping.”

“Then fuck off,” Anderson murmured, quiet enough for everyone to pretend it didn’t happen.

A silence fell over the flat, nothing but the sound of Sherlock hectically turning through pages of his book. “Of course,” he said suddenly, “you could all become cashiers and and _finally_ stop pretending you’re making a difference anywhere in London.”

_It’s a war zone with no reason for battle_ , Lestrade thought pitifully, losing his temper. “Sherlock. John says that he is going to buy you some unbreakable graduated cylinders,” He interjected with an extreme sense of impatience, hoping the vague dialogue would affect Sherlock.

The lanky man snapped his book shut and sat upright in one quick motion, the curls on his head bobbing like sailboats lost on a tempered ocean. Realizing how brash his reaction was, causing everyone to stare at him, he blushed again.

“Where is he anyway?” Sherlock quizzed casually.

“He left for work two hours ago.” Lestrade answered, running a hand through his hair, confused as to what was happening.

“I thought he was down here, why would he be going to work if he _just_ came home.”

_He sounded hurt_ , Lestrade thought as he saw Sherlock get up and walk out of the room. The shower sounded in the distance.

“What did John do, smash his lab equipment?” One of the women looking through a camera lense quizzed.

“How am I supposed to know?” Lestrade snapped, reaching for his coffee cup and tipping it to his mouth; empty. He scowled.

****

When John came home everyone one was still looking out the large living room window, he had went through the door backwards, holding a hulking white paper bag.

“No findings?” He asked Lestrade, shutting the door behind him.

“Not a thing.”

Lestrade could see his face fall just a tiny bit and was going to begin to feel sorry for him, he had probably thought his days of bunking were long over, but then Sherlock bounced into the room, still reading the Anatomy book.

“Lestrade,” he started, his words muffled by the pages, the book too close to his mouth, “have you ever seen a dead body with a rusty pole through its thigh?”

Lestrade was about to inform Sherlock on his terminal madness, but he was interrupted.

“I have,” John said, causing Sherlock to pull the book away from his face.

“How long have you been back?” The detective wondered, his head tilted.

“Long enough to hear the question,” he replied. “Do you want to know the story?”

Sherlock looked taken aback, “Well, obviously.” He deadpanned.

John snorted, “Here are some unbreakable graduated cylinders, which I'm guessing Lestrade mentioned to you today.” He handed Sherlock the bag, “I found this shop that sold them 20 minutes from the hospital; the man who owned the store was high out of his mind, but threw one to the ground for me and it didn’t break so I got three.” The taller man looked into the bag and John continued, “I think they will come in handy.”

That’s when Sherlock _really_ went off. He coughed into his fist and blushed and tugged at his shirt. “Yes,” he agreed. “Because I drop them a lot.”

“Obviously,” John agreed with a smile. “Because you drop them all the time.”

“You literally have _two_ beds here,” Anderson interposed after a moment of silence, playing with the focus ring on a camera and rolling his eyes. “I'm sure you can make it to one before you get on the floor in desperation instead.”

Sherlock dropped the bag to the floor. John’s mouth fell open.

Lestrade bowed his head in defeat and let out a long, loud breath. “ _Professionalism_ ,” he hissed at Anderson. Looking up, he stared at his employee like all the flaws had on his face had amplified themselves and he had become the most revolting thing in the city.

“Well,” John said, bending over to look in the bag, “now we know I wasn’t ripped off.” He looked at Sherlock, a tint of pink on his face, “can we go find somewhere for dinner now that that’s over?”

  
Sherlock nooded and walked over to his jacket and wallet, “our home is infested with circus monkeys.”

Sherlock let the door click behind them, and Lestrade turned to Anderson.

“ _Before you two get on the couch in desperation_?” Lestrade repeated, in shock. “The beautiful thing about thoughts is that no one else can hear them, so even though we are all thinking the same thing, _we don’t say it out loud_.”

“It just came out!” He fought back, “I wanted to make sure they knew that they were _flirting_ with each other!”

“Oh no,” Sally whispered from behind Lestrade, and he turned to her with impatience.

“What now!”

“He had just left it on the couch and I-” Sally held up Sherlock’s phone. “There is a passcode delay on it, and it just let me in.”

“Fucking hell!” Lestrade yelled, “they aren’t celebrities, leave them alone!”

She waved his snarkiness off, continuing to stare at the phone. “This- it’s,” She gingerly passed the phone to him.

**February third, 2013**

Coming home?

-SH

I just got off the plane, be there soon.

-JW

If you don’t replace my shoes by the time I get home I’m going to burn all of your jeans on the kitchen stove.

-JW

...Poetic.

-SH

“I don’t get it,” Lestrade sighed, handing the phone back.

Sally shoved it back into his hand. “Scroll up.”

Not only until Lestrade read it did he realize how creepy and invasive he was being. He pocketed the phone and opened his mouth to yell at Sally, but then realizing he just joined in on her snooping, looked out the window onto the dimming street.

“That didn’t happen,” he said, watching his reflection in the glass, the thin wall protecting his team from the chill of the London winter. “And if somehow you think it did, you’re going to be scooping ice cream for toddlers at the nearest zoo within the next week, that is, instead of working for me.”

“Fair enough.” Sally acquiesced. “So-” the smile in her voice louder than the actual words, “they’re getting it on,” she simpered. “Saw that coming from miles away.”

  
“Just stop,” Lestrade groaned, putting his hand to his face. “Making fun of Sherlock is one thing, but John is a good man. And he makes fantastic coffee.” He stood up and removed Sherlock’s scratched phone from his pocket, holding it out. “Where did you find this.”

“Just there on the couch,” she explained, pointing to the right.

Lestrade threw it on one of the cushions and sat back down next to Sally.

“This stays between us.”

“You already said that, boss.”

“Just making sure you aren’t confused.”

Sally looked out the window and smirked, “I had always figured Sherlock thought sex was a murder weapon,” Lestrade stared at her, slightly entertained, “it wasn’t too far fetched, he usually only sees it after the fact when people are laying in a bed, decapitated at a crime scene.”

The D.I snorted and Sherlock and John tumbled back inside the door. Lestrade jumped at the amount of paranoia that came over him at their re-entrance.

“That was quick,” he observed with bravado.

“It was too windy and all of the cabs were taken.” John explained, throwing his jacket on the couch, framing Sherlock’s misplaced phone like art. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.”

Sherlock had been slowly peeling off his long, heavy jacket when his eyes latched onto his phone, practically flaunting its changed position on the couch. He walked over to it, snatching it from the seat. The D.I swallowed and Sally tried to fight back a smile. He looked at them, but pocketed the phone without changing his features.

“I’ll order something from somewhere,” he offered, and John shrugged.

“Too late for coffee?” The doctor offered to Lestrade once Sherlock left the room, and he shook his head.

“The answer to that will always be hell no.”

John laughed and went to the kitchen. “How much longer are you here tonight, out of curiosity?”

“Ten minutes, top.” Lestrade answered, following John to the kitchen like he held the answers to the universe.

“Well, take your time.” John said as he filled the pot with water. “I’ve heard this guy is pretty violent.”

“He has had his moments, yeah.” Lestrade answered.

“Shit!” Anderson yelled from the window, “why did the streetlight go out?”

The D.I walked back to this team and glared out the window, “can you not see anything?”

“Not a thing,” said one of the men, “Must have been the wind. I think were done for the night.”

“Great,” Lestrade said, half seriously. “Pack up what needs to be, back here tomorrow at 5:45. Saturday should be our day.”

****

On Friday, Lestrade had politely texted John, asking him to let them in at 5:45, so when the team arrived the next day the door was ajar and Sally had no other choice than to keep her lipsticked mouth shut as they sleepwalked over to the window.

Lestrade pretended to help set up the cameras for thirty seconds, and then made his way over to the kitchen, hoping to see John filling up the coffee pot.

He let his lips curve downward in disappointment as he witnessed the kitchen mock him with it’s emptiness. The coffee pot was dry and Sherlock’s lab equipment was still scattered around the breakfast table like guests at a ball, usually John or Sherlock push some back in order to actually eat their food on it. _They claim to constantly be living on the edge_ , Lestrade thought, _but they do have their little routines_.

He imagined them kissing where he was standing and got the shivers. Not that kissing other men was wrong, just _they_ were. They were wrong.

He wouldn’t have guessed that they were together. Sherlock talked to John like he was an assistant, demanding him to research family histories and interview the victims boring friends during cases.

And John had never really looked at the detective like that anyway; he eyed him with admiration, exhaustion maybe, and Sherlock was always too busy to look at John in the first place.

Maybe he had just been missing the obvious. That was disconcerting considering his job description.

Lestrade looked around; John’s favorite shoes were parked by the door and his beat-up leather wallet was in one of the lab cup thingy’s. Their flat wasn’t large; a kitchen, two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room…

“John?” Lestrade called, if nothing else hoping he could guilt the man into making him some coffee.

The D.I heard a sound come from Sherlock’s room, almost in a reply. The chances that the detective was actually awake right now were very slim. Was John in there? Is that where he slept now?

_They weren’t having…_ he reluctantly thought, and took solace in how ridiculous the suggestion was. John had opened the door for him and his team that morning, they knew that there would be a crowd here. He crossed the possibility off his list.

“Anyone?” He yelled, feeling like he was talking to himself.

“Just come into my bloody room!” Sherlock’s gravely voice yelled back, his voice muffled by the thick walls.

Lestrade debated ignoring the command for a moment before making his way to his room and pushing open the white, narrow door. Sherlock was texting on the bed, wearing plaid pajamas and a sweater so baggy it looked like there wasn’t a body under it. 

John was sitting on a black, leather work chair in the far corner of the room, wearing glasses and typing something onto his computer, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed, not even looking up when Lestrade meekly entered the room.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade’s tractable face and turned of his phone, throwing it onto the floor, “he is pretending like he needs to fill out some patient forms, but is really just avoiding you.” John turned to Sherlock sharply as the detective stood up and ran a hand through his curly hair. “John, do you have any hydrogen chloride?”

The doctor slammed his laptop and raised his eyebrows. “I do need to fill these out because I have a job, thanks, and if I had hydrogen chloride don’t you think it would be going down your throat right about now?”

Sherlock frowned at him and laid down on the bed, pulling the light blue covers around himself, “I’m going to go back to sleep since your being useless.”

John rolled his eyes and smiled tightly at Lestrade.

“Got sick of my constant need for your coffee?” Lestrade poked, confused as to why John was finding sanctuary with Sherlock, which made no sense in itself.

The doctor laughed dryly, the smiling slipping from his face. He stared at Sherlock, curled in the bed. “No, I wasn’t hiding from you, Sherlock is just an idiot.”

The detective snorted, his eyes still closed. “I told him that you went through my phone, Lestrade, and now he is embarrassed because he knows I don’t delete his texts.”

The D.I’s cheeks bloomed, and he took a small step back. The hope that Sherlock would over look one of Lestrade's mistakes, _just... just once_ , was too much to ask, apparently. John probably thought he was a voyeur now, reading his private texts like a curious teenager.“Sally tricked me into reading it, and I didn’t realize what she was showing me until I saw it.” It was _kind_ of the truth, he rationalized. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting the conversation that he read.

John awkwardly looked down and opened his laptop back up, adjusting his glasses. Has he always had those? “It’s all fine,” he deadpanned, “well, it isn’t a problem with me.” They both looked at the man breathing deeply on the bed.

“Right,” Lestrade blurted out, going along with the lie. “Well. Congratulations on your… Sherlock, then.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands and resumed typing.

“Well. I guess I’ll just leave you to your paperwork.” Lestrade breathed out, and backed out of the room.  

****

Sally was flirtatiously brushing something off of Anderson’s face when he walked back in, and all of a sudden the flat felt tight and uncomfortable. Any caffeine left in his blood system was slowly being used up, his body was becoming drab and moribund. He was sure as hell not going to go ask John to make him coffee, and wasn’t going to make himself at home by brewing a cup in their kitchen with his own hands.

There was always Speedys, he thought suddenly. A stroke of genius. _Speedy’s is a fucking cafe._

There was no rule against penetrating the grounds of the enemy, he figured, and walked out of the door, going to the caffeine house like a magnet, gravitating towards the opportunity like a beautiful woman calling his name, leaving his team behind as he supplied his body with the thing it needed most.

He tiptoed out the door before anyone noticed he had gone out hunting and circled the stairs, down to the haven that he craved like a good night’s sleep.

_It’s here,_  he thought with a sense of euphoria as the strong scent of coffee beans pushed into his pores. He strutted over to the counter to order two of the largest they had, ripping his wallet out of his jean pocket to retrieve the paper that made his satisfaction possible.

Because of his shaking, caffeine neglected hands, the extra money he had tried to tip into his palm cascaded onto the floor.

“God damnit,” he murmured, and before he could bend down to get it, the man behind him crouched down to retrieve the cash-register destined coins.

He fully pivoted himself to collect the money and thank the good samaritan; the man had dark hair, was around six feet and 245 pounds. He was absently mindedly stroking his casted nose and leaning on his left foot, his right heavily bandaged.

Lestrade blinked once, the strain of the distant caffeine dissipating from his weary body. He tackled Feeny to the ground with a cosmic whump and listened to his team crash through the shop doors, yelling at customers to back away.  

 

Lestrade stopped by their flat the next day, feeling like he needed to thank John for the use of his home. He would thank Sherlock, too, but all the tenacious kid would want is a savage case.

He rang their bell and then stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting for a familiar face to unlock the large, wooden door. He let the cold air bristle his hair and sting his nose. It was comforting.

The doctor opened the door, and seeing who it was, let his face tense up and his eyes divert.

“Hello,” John said awkwardly. “You’re camera lense is upstairs, if that’s what you came back for.”

Lestrade felt bad for the man, taking a good look at him. He knew that John dated women. Loved them. The D.I had met some of his girlfriends before and he had always looked comfortable with them, happy. He was just your average, straight bloke...

He remembered when someone at John’s hospital was making a business out of ‘fairly priced narcotics,’ and he had to come in to arrest the young doctor, fresh out of college with debts the size of the emergency room. As he was shoving handcuffs over the boy’s wrists, listening to him scream about his mother, John came running down with a woman who had red, curly hair and white teeth, framed by coral lips.

John had helped Lestrade shove the thrashing man into the police car as the girl watched from a couple feet away, looking worried in her blue scrubs, arms crossed across her chest.

After Lestrade shook John’s hand, the ex-soldier walked straight back towards the woman. She said something to him with furrowed eyebrows, and he just smiled and kissed her. Rubbed her back.

Lestrade asked him later that day who she was while Sherlock paced around his office, perplexed by a corpse who had mold under her eyelids.

“Her name’s Lauren.” John smiled proudly, “she’s great, really.”

“How long have you been dating her?” Lestrade had quizzed, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I want to say three weeks now?” The doctor reflected, his smile becoming wider. “She didn’t know the drug dealer, which is always nice.”

“Well good on you too, she really is beautiful.”

John was glowing. “And great to spend time with, I’m probably going to see her tonight as soon as I get the hell out of here.”

Lestrade saw Sherlock stumble slightly, but John, with his back to the detective, missed it.

“Did I drop something over there, Sherlock?” The D.I asked.

The detective shot Lestrade a wary look, “no I just had an idea, I’ll see you two later.” He grabbed his coat of the chair and leaped out of the room.

“Well,” John stood up and stretched, “I guess that’s my que; he won’t be home for two days now,” He joked, pulling out his phone.

“Only if there wasn’t truth to that,” the D.I laughed, “I’m going to find the enthusiast and make sure he doesn’t do something stupid; see you later.”

Sherlock had had his arms crossed and shoulders slumped for the rest of the night.

That had been so long ago.

Had the doctor been in love with the tall, handsome man with an extreme air of dominance back then? Probably not, it had been all about Lauren for months after that.

_Well_ , he thought, _now he is pushing Sherlock onto fragile lab equipment in order to get at him._

 

But no matter how committed John may be now, Lestrade had been the one who had dragged Sherlock by the curls out of that decrepit house five years ago, smelling and malnourished and disturbed, abusing a brain that the D.I would kill to have for himself. He took him to his own home, made him shower and eat his wife’s hot food, promised him a good life if he could close his eyes and take deep breaths and deny himself the powdery cocaine and other dangerous loves that held his utter interest. He had taken his own money to pay all of Sherlock’s debts and fines, listened to him cry when he told Lestrade of his struggle through feeding his addiction, his struggle through detox.

Lestrade realized how easily he forgot all of it, every single day. It was just, it had been a different human back then.

“You’re treating him well, right?” Lestrade blurted out suddenly, loudly.

John finally looked up, mouth hanging open like burgled safe. “Excuse me?”

“I know that Sherlock is easy to hurt, because sometimes it seems like he doesn’t actually feel the pain, but I want you to promise me you are respecting him.” Lestrade couldn’t believe this was coming out of his blue lips, nipped by the unforgiving winter, but it was.

“Of course I do. I _do_.” John said quietly, it seemed like he was relieved by Lestrade’s words, being assured he wasn’t the only one who didn’t assume Sherlock have a force field pulled snug around his feelings.

“I know you have probably seen his scars.” Lestrade continued, hoping Sherlock wasn’t listening, “they’re everywhere, right?”

“Um. Yeah.” John agreed, his skin looked clear in the cold, his eyes seemed brighter, too. “From injection needles, deep scratches, glass; some are harder to tell where he got them. Not that he talks about it.”

He nodded. “He has been through a lot. I used to sit on the sink counter while he showered and he would tell me where they were from. I had to make sure he didn’t drown himself in the bathtub or something.” He paused at John’s worried face, “He was never very alert.”

“Concerning the amount of time he and I spend together, I don’t get to hear a lot about this stuff.” John pulled his jacket tighter around him and rubbed his hands against his biceps, “he lived with you, then? At the beginning?”

Lestrade scoffed, “he pretends like it never happened.” He puffed up his chest; Sherlock had moved out three months after he had curled up on his couch for the first time and showed up at The Yard for his first day of work the next. That job hadn’t lasted long. “I just want to know that you’re treating him well. Because I remember everything he pretends not to.”

“Do you think I’m not for some reason?” He asked, leaning his hand on the doorframe.

“You just seemed really embarrassed,” Lestrade shrugged, the movement sending shivers down his spine. “Well, yesterday. When you were in his room.”

John laughed awkwardly, letting some tension slip away, warming the air a little. “To be fair you did read my texts,” the doctor raised his eyebrows and quirked his head. “It kind of makes for an awkward situation.”

“Sally tricked me!” Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It wasn’t like I did it with the intention of _reading_ what I did.”

“Well, I believe that,” John laughed again. “I would apologize, but it’s not really my fault, is it.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry it happened.” He rubbed his hands together. “Sherlock was probably embarrassed, also. Just hides it really well.”

John nodded his head, and as he opened his pink mouth to speak, Sherlock called his name from upstairs. His shoulders sagged and a small smile rounded out his face. He started to step back inside. “Well, I’ll be seeing you again soon, won’t I?”

“Well, yeah, and if you ever need a drink or something, I’m here.” He stared at the bags under the doctor’s eyes. “And if you want to know things about the monster upstairs, I think I can enlighten you about everything from year one to twenty four.”

“I’ll be keeping that in mind.” He stuck out his hand, and Lestrade shook it. Add that professional touch.


End file.
